Looks indistinct, but lovely; glitter gay With rainbow tints, on every herb, leaf, flower, And slenderest blade, the pure, fresh dews of Morn That vary, while they twinkle, and still seem (Like tears that tremble in the eye of bliss) As if they wish'd, but did not dare, to fall. How sweet the matin hour! it hath a charm Peculiar to itself, like early youth- How full of cheerful joy! all rural sights Could, at no other moment, meet the eye So freshly-vividly, nor rural sounds Steal with such novel sweetness on the ear. Ev'n now, while, fancy-led, I slowly stray Along this narrow and sequester'd vale, Whose spungy mosses, and unequal tufts Of tangled verdure, crown'd with taper rush, Scarce any human foot imprints, save mine, Or that of early Shepherd, when he leads His playful lambs to crop each azure bell, The dew-drop's chalice, my full bosom heaves With many a glad emotion, many a thought. Of keenest pleasure, undivorced from peace. I thank thee, Thou, whose bounteous benefits, Open to all, I, at this hour, enjoy, In silent rapture, while my swelling heart. Is eloquent, beyond the power of speech:
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